


Chaser

by Treesap



Series: Lumos Universe [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fred Weasley Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treesap/pseuds/Treesap
Summary: When she was a very little girl, Angelina Johnson’s mother had taught her to throw. To feel the connection between her hand and the Quaffle, to reel back without losing balance. To train her eye on the spot she wanted it to go. After that, it was a matter of extension, putting all of her power and magic into the release, and watching it arch through the hoop.Her mother was the best chaser on the Holyhead Harpies, and Angelina would follow in her footsteps.Angelina Johnson was very good at throwing—the best, maybe.(A Lumos-universe look at Fred and Angelina's relationship.)What really happened at the Battle of Hogwarts?
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley
Series: Lumos Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971883
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	Chaser

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Loves! Here's the promised Lumos-Universe Fred/Angelina one shot. :) I started working on this as a little "thank you" of sorts for 2 thousand followers on TikTok, and in the time since, we've accumulated an additional fifteen hundred. I am entirely overwhelmed by the kindness you all have shown. Thank you so much. <3 
> 
> As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or storyworld.
> 
> "Team" by Noah Cyrus pairs well with this little fic. <3
> 
> I'm off to finally enjoy a pumpkin muffin (my reward for finishing this one-shot) and to work on the next Lumos chapter (which will be uploaded on schedule). In the meantime, please stay safe and warm!
> 
> For now, grab your tea and maybe a scone, wrap that blanket around your shoulders, and let's dive in.

**Chaser**

When she was a very little girl, Angelina Johnson’s mother had taught her to throw. To feel the connection between her hand and the Quaffle, to reel back without losing balance. To train her eye on the spot she wanted it to go. After that, it was a matter of extension, putting all of her power and magic into the release, and watching it arch through the hoop.

Her mother was the best chaser on the Holyhead Harpies, and Angelina would follow in her footsteps.

Angelina Johnson was very good at throwing—the best, maybe.

#

September 1990

The Quidditch pitch was orange in the light of the afternoon sun, and Angelina adjusted the straps on her wrist guards once again, double checking.

Not a single mistake would stand in the way of her position on the team—especially not faulty equipment. She inhaled the crisp smell of wind and grass. It was a good day for Quidditch.

She tilted her chin, surveying the other participants. A couple of sixth-years were probably her most fierce competition—Thomas Frobisher and Samuel Peakes. They seemed be shooting for the same position she was, tossing a Quaffle back and forth to warm up.

There were only four spots—two chaser positions and two beater positions. She’d prefer chaser, but she’d leap at the chance for any of the slots.

Unfortunately, the field was crowded with hopefuls.

Charlie Weasley stood at the front of the group, watching the players. Oliver Wood was poised at his side—a decent keeper, when he could keep a lid on his temper.

Something jostled her, and she whirled. Fred and George Weasley zipped past, laughing on their brooms. She tightened her fist around her broomstick.

They probably figured they were guaranteed a spot on the team, with their brother as captain. She swallowed back her anger.

She was good enough to beat anyone on this field, but family ties ran deeper than that. One of them swept past again, and her robe whipped in the wind wake from his broom tale.

“Oi!” she shouted. The boy turned, mid-laugh, surveying her. “Watch where you’re going, Weasley.” He landed with a thunk, a cocky smile splashed across his features.

“I know exactly where I’m going, Johnson,” he said, grinning and dismounting, striding up to her. He got close, enough for her to see the freckles sprinkled over his nose. His grin grew wider, sparking with something like excitement as he noticed the Quaffle under her arm. “You brought your own? Glad to see someone else here is taking this seriously.”

“A Weasley twin? Taking anything seriously? Please,” Angelina said, rolling her eyes. He crossed his arms, but his grin didn’t fade.

“You ought to know, Johnson, George and I are the best beaters to come to Hogwarts in years,” Fred said. He paused, staring out over the field, then added: “Good luck out there. It’d be fun to have you on the team with us.”

Angelina’s insides turned molten. “Some of us worked for this,” she said. Just then, his twin thudded to a landing beside him. George’s expression was neutral as his eyes worked over the pair of them.

“Pardon?” Fred said, his smile fading. Angelina lifted her chin and poked him in the shoulder.

“You heard me,” she said. “I know this is all a great joke to you, but I don’t play around when it comes to Quidditch.” She straightened her shoulders.

“Shame,” Fred said, climbing back onto his broom. “What’s Quidditch without a bit of fun?” His eyes sparked as he swooped away.

Smarmy git.

Charlie blew a whistle, and everyone lined up. Angelina took a place near the back so she could see her competition’s strengths and weaknesses.

They were to try to pass the Quaffle, back and forth, then attempt to get it past the keeper. Each pair had three attempts.

Most players didn’t score, but a few had managed to get one through. Wood was a strong keeper. Thomas and Samuel managed to sink two.

The two sixth-years were strong. Clearly, they’d had a great deal of flying experience, and their longer arms gave them a bit of advantage over the younger players. They weren’t working well together, however, and seemed intent on outplaying each other each time Charlie called them forward.

The taller boy with sandy, blonde hair careened, narrowly missing the other player in his rush to chuck the Quaffle.

Angelina swallowed stepping up to the line, stretching one arm, then the other.

“I heard her Mum played for the Harpies,” a girl whispered behind her. Angelina tuned it out.

Charlie tossed her the Quaffle, and she ran her fingers over the stitching, getting a feel for it. Angelina breathed the wind, lifting off the ground.

Angelina nodded to the partner assigned to her—Alicia Spinnet, a girl in her year.

“Go as far as you can,” she said, voice low. Alicia raised her brows, tilting her head to the hoops on the other side of the field.

“Can you?” Alicia asked. Angelina nodded. The other girl’s eyes widened.

“When you’re ready,” Charlie called. The whistle blew, and Alicia took off, a streak of red against the green.

Angelina slowly rose into the air, then turned, making eye contact with Fred.

Then she let the instinct take her, tearing through the air. Alicia was already halfway across the field. Three-quarters. Oliver sat on his broom, distracted.

His mistake.

The cold wind bit at her face, and she laughed. This was it. This was Quidditch. Her eyes locked on Alicia. The perfect distance from the hoops.

Angelina unleashed.

She reeled back, extending, letting the Quaffle fly like fire down the pitch.

It collided into Alicia’s chest with a firm smack, and the other girl slung it through the hoop.

Oliver swooped, twisting to grab the ball. It was nearly a 45-meter throw, right on target. Not her best, but close. On her way back to the line-up, she couldn’t resist a glance at Fred. His mouth had dropped open, eyes wide.

#

October 1990

They’d made an unsteady alliance, of sorts. As the three youngest players on the starting team, they had to support each other.

But it wasn’t until their first game, when Fred swooped between Angelina’s face and a Bludger—then did it again, and again, and again—that she realized something.

If Fred was on the field, the Bludgers wouldn’t touch her.

He wouldn’t give them a chance.

The next day, she slipped in beside him at the breakfast table, nicking a piece of toast from his plate.

Fred didn’t react, merely reached forward for another slice off the serving tray, nodding along to George’s analysis of why the Chudley Cannons were going to do terribly that year.

From then on, they were rarely apart.

#

April 16, 1994

Angelina turned on her broom, grinning widely, punching the air. The crowd roared.

“She scores! Ten-Zero Gryffindor!”

Out of nowhere, something collided with her, knocking her off balance. Pain streaked through her side, and she flipped, almost slipping from her seat.

It was Flint.

“Sorry!” the Slytherin called, sneering. “Sorry, didn’t see her!”

Bloody likely. Angelina firmed her jaw. Before she could call it to Madam Hooch’s attention, a red cloak zipped in front of her.

Fred Weasley, lunging like a lion in hunt.

“Oi Flint!” Fred shouted, an uncommon ferocity on his face. His beater’s bat sailed from his hand, smashing into the back of Flint’s head. “Try that again and see what happens!”

Angelina huffed, chasing after him. The outburst cost them a penalty shot.

“Fred!” she shouted, straining to be heard over the crowd. Fred wheeled around, his eyes searching her face in earnest. “That wasn’t necessary.” The anger licked through her tone. Fred’s face twisted, and he flew closer.

“Agree to disagree,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “Flint knew exactly what he was doing.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Angelina shouted.

Fred took a breath, leaning back on his broom. “Do you see me telling you how to play Chaser, Angelina?”

Angelina rolled her eyes and began to fly to the hoops to line up for the penalty shot.

“It’s my job to protect you!” Fred called after her. She didn’t answer.

That evening, after the chaos from the win had faded and the Quidditch cup was safely locked inside the glass case in the Gryffindor common room, Angelina found Fred. He was twisting fireworks together, an absent look in his eyes.

She plunked beside him, putting her feet on the table.

“Careful,” Fred murmured, moving her feet away from the bowl of black powder and into his lap. “This is new stuff—not like Filibuster’s. Highly reactive.” His hands didn’t slow, sticking the powder into the paper, twisting the ends, then stacking the product beside the others.

“You saying if I poke it, it’ll go off? Without provocation?” Angelina said, lifting her brows.

Fred’s expression didn’t change. “No, but if you ram into it with a broom, you’ll find yourself facing natural consequences.”

Angelina bit back a smile. With the trophy in the common room, Fred’s grudge seemed less foolhardy and more endearing.

“Touchy, are we?” Angelina asked, taking a sip from her mug.

Fred’s shoulders tightened, and he looked up at her. “For a moment after he hit you, I thought you were going to fall.”

Angelina set her mug on the table. “I won’t fall, Fred. I can take care of myself.” Fred nodded, shifting, and placing her feet gently on the ground.

“I should pack up,” he said, staring at the fireworks. Angelina watched as he tucked the supplies away, then headed to the staircase.

“Fred?” she called, right as he reached it. Fred’s steps slowed. “I do appreciate you looking out, though.”

His ears looked pink in the dim light.

#

December 1994

It was strange, not having Quidditch this year. She missed hearing Fred’s grateful whoop as they sped around the pitch, brooms whistling through the air.

Things had changed, it seemed. While the lot of them would be back on the team the following year, the chemistry would be different. Fred and George were spending more time than ever on their projects, holing up in the boys’ dormitories with boxes of supplies. It was only natural. They were getting older, and the twins were more serious about their plans for after Hogwarts.

They’d do it of course. They were bound to succeed.

When it came to Fred, especially, though—something had shifted, and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. The night before, she’d looked up in the middle of her Potions essay, and Fred had been looking at her. And not in the way he usually did, as though a joke were about to slip off his tongue.

No, this had been quieter. Pensive.

Something was different. She didn’t find out what it was, though, until the next morning in the Great Hall, when a crumpled ball of parchment hit her elbow.

She raised her brows. Was he really trying to start a prank war with Snape close by? Angelina glared at him—detention with Snape was intolerable.

“What?” she whispered. Fred grinned, pointing at her, then him.

“Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?” he mouthed, pantomiming a dance motion.

Fred Weasley—Fred Weasley, the funniest, most beautiful boy in school who smelled like fireworks, pumpkin juice, and cinnamon scones. Fred Weasley wanted to take her to Yule Ball. Not some other girl. Her.

Things had changed, it seemed. For the better.

He was smiling like he already knew her answer.

Butterflies flooded through her ribcage, and she couldn’t hold back her excited grin. She nodded, feeling very much like her toes had left the solid ground, and a great and wonderful beyond stretched before her.

She was flying, now.

#

December 25, 1994

With another boy, the dance would’ve been boring. But not with Fred.

He twirled her, and her braids flared. She was spinning fast, but he’d catch her. He always did.

#

July 1997

Fred hadn’t visited since May.

_May._

First, it had been space. He’d said they needed to take space, that it wasn’t safe for them to be travelling back and forth between each other’s places all the time. That they’d have to be careful.

His letters had been short—no detail about the rest of the family. He was treating her like an outsider. And for what? So, the people snooping in their business would think he despised her?

And now he had the nerve to show up, hat in his hands, telling her that they had to “take a break.”

“Absolutely not!” Angelina stalked past Fred, leaving him in her flat’s entryway. “Are you thick?”

“Please Angel,” Fred said, closing his eyes. “I-I can’t. We can’t.”

The pet name wouldn’t work on her. Not this time.

“If you care so much about keeping me safe, then stay by my side,” Angelina shouted. “Did you ever think of that?”

Bloody Hell, she missed him. She missed the spark in his eyes as he leaned over a game of Exploding Snap, the constant stream of sarcasm like a running commentary on the ridiculous nature of the world around them, the countless, casual touches they used to exchange—a hand on the shoulder in the kitchen, a kiss on the forehead when he dropped her off at her door.

And now, he wanted to put what little there was left to a stop.

“Because you don’t think!” The words hurtled out of her. She didn’t mean them, but they found their mark. She stopped, breathing hard.

She couldn’t see his face—it was downturned, towards the floor, his hands unmoving at his sides.

“I-I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

His shoulders moved with his breath, and he nodded.

“But, blimey, Fred, the Death Eaters will always be there. There will always, always be something to worry about. Some kind of threat. That’s why we’ve got to stick together.”

She stepped forward, taking his hand.

“This is different, Angelina,” he said.

“Don’t do this.” Her whisper was so close to breaking. He wouldn’t look in her eyes. She could feel the tears, spilling over, onto her face. Their fingers slipped apart.

#

October 2, 1997

The bell rang, and Angelina jumped. Her flat didn’t have a bell, but her parents’ did. It was louder here most days, but in a nice sort of way. Besides, Angelina hated being cooped up alone in her flat.

She raised her wand, and cracked open the door.

Fred Weasley stood there, pygmy puff in hand. Angelina froze.

“You asked for delivery,” he said, uncharacteristically quiet. Then, he sucked in a breath and spoke rapidly, pushing the words out before she could close the door. “Do you remember this one time, when we were fifteen, and you asked me once what I wanted to do after Hogwarts, and I told you that I would join a muggle circus, and then McGonagall took away house points for talking in class.” Angelina crossed her arms. Obviously, it was Fred and not a Death Eater, but she couldn’t do this right now. Not with how much it hurt, looking at him, knowing they weren’t together.

“I suppose,” she said, trying her hardest not to break down. Despite her best effort and the screaming alarms in her mind, she found herself beckoning him inside, allowing him a small bit of space in the entryway.

“And you whispered that joining the muggle circus wasn’t strange enough for me—that I’d have to think of something better—something that I really wanted to do with my whole heart.” He stepped forward, through the door frame, shutting it behind him. “I was only joking of course, I didn’t want to join the muggle circus. I don’t know the first thing about acrobatics.”

“Fred?” She asked, lowering her arms.

“And I think I’m pretty rubbish at walking tightropes,” he said, lowering the pygmy puff onto the hall table. Angelina watched him, concern filtering through her. The stress of it all had gotten to him—he looked harried, and a bit afraid. He was rambling. Babbling, really.

“I mean, can you imagine what a mess that would be?” Fred said. He paused, then continued: “So, I’ve been sitting in the shop with this random conversation running through my mind, and I can’t stop thinking about it—about the time when you asked me what I wanted to do. And, finally, I think I’ve got a better answer, now, so you should ask me again.”

He swallowed. “If you’d still care to know, that is.” He bit his lips together, looking as though he was bracing for a fatal blow.

Angelina’s heart pounded. “I’m confused. What do you want me to ask you?”

Fred’s breath was ragged, his eyes trained on her. “Ask me again—what I want Angelina. Ask me what I want.”

He wasn’t making any sense.

“Please,” he whispered, stepping forward, looking at her with those familiar, brown eyes that always seemed to reel her in and hold her captive. She tried—tried to keep the walls up, but she couldn’t. Not with him.

“What is it you want, Fred?” she asked softly.

“To be with you forever and ever,” he said, dropping to one knee.

_Oh._

She sputtered, her hands flying up to her mouth.

“You’re mad,” Angelina breathed. Then: “What about the—”

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispered, gaze steady. “As a team.”

He was smiling at her like he already knew her answer.

That broke her, and the happy tears started leaking out of her as she laughed, shaking her head. “Fred Weasley, tell me you aren’t proposing to me at a quarter to five on a Thursday!” she said.

“Couldn’t wait,” he said, grinning.

“Stand up so I can kiss you proper, you git,” she cried. He bounded up, hands on her waist, and she grabbed his collar, pulling him in.

#

March 26, 1998

Their wedding day took a while to arrange, what with the tyrannical government looming around every corner. The distance between them was still hard but knowing that there was an end in sight made it tolerable.

Finally, Fred found someone who could perform the ceremony without the Ministry getting ahold of their location.

According to his radio message, Fred had run into him while picking up some food—he’d been levitating the heavier bags into the boot of his car when he thought no one was looking. Fred had helped him lift them by hand, and apparently, they’d got to talking.

And now they finally, finally stood together, hurling themselves into the great unknown, about to change their lives forever.

She wouldn’t have it any other way.

#

May 2, 1998

The ceiling rained down around them. Angelina leaned closer to her broom, flinging a disarming spell across the room.

The Death Eater—Rookwood, screamed, and the curse blasted toward her.

But Fred was there, shoving her out of the way, placing himself between her and the danger—just like he always had.

The curse hit the wall, and it crashed, narrowly missing the tail of her broomstick. She wheeled around, searching through the thick sheet of dust in the air.

She couldn’t see him.

Percy was crying.

“Fred?” Angelina shouted.

“No—” Percy cried, standing over something she couldn’t quite make out, his hands trembling. There was a flash of copper in the grey near his feet.

“Fred!”

The lack of answer tore her in two. She vaulted through the rubble, shoving it back from the copper, and then he was there—pale, broken, and bloody.

Unmoving.

Angelina opened and closed her mouth, staggering back.

“Don’t you dare!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare, Fred Weasley!”

He didn’t answer.

So, she did the only thing she knew how to. Angelina turned, mounting her broom, and took off.

#

Angelina shot past Harry, her broom whistling as she took a hairpin turn into the headmaster’s office. Their numbers were dwindling, and within the hour, the castle would be swarming with Death Eaters. All of them would be slaughtered, and Voldemort would creep into every corner that had thus far kept him out. Everything would have been for nothing—unless there was something-something.

Surely, _surely_ something here would help. It couldn’t have been for nothing, it couldn’t. She refused to believe in that ending.

The drawers gave to her hands, and she rifled through them, her fingers clumsy and shaking. A cold, distant mentality had taken her out of her skin. She was mechanical, unfeeling. Moving without meaning in the dark.

There was nothing. Nothing. No magic potion, no secret map, no hidden journal with directions.

It wasn’t fair.

Dumbledore’s portrait stared down at her, and he didn’t speak. Didn’t say a single word, only folded his hands and looked at her with something like pity.

Typical.

A sob rose in her throat. He never intervened in time. Not with Cedric. Not now. Year after year, Fred and George had grown more and more tightly wound, expecting the worst as their family, Harry, and Hermione were thrown into greater and greater danger. All the while, Dumbledore had stood, passive, always expected them to figure these things out on their own. It was cruel.

And now Fred was gone.

The feeling rushed up in her, overpowering the numbness that had settled, choking her with its strength. She was drowning in an ocean.

She gripped an inkstand, hurling it without aim or purpose.

It cracked into the stone.

“We were only children!” She screamed at the wall of portraits, throat raw. “Children!” None of them answered, but some of them were crying.

Next came a _History of Magic_ book—the binding splintered as it hit the wall. Then, a glass paperweight, which shattered against Phineas Black’s portrait frame. Another book. A silver quill.

Anything she could get her hands on.

All of it useless.

Just like her.

She stormed to the glass cabinet and shoved. It hit the floor, shattering into shrapnel.

That’s all she was, now.

She stared down, blinking at the shards strewn on the ground. A flash of gold gleamed in the pieces of a small, broken globe. She knelt down and picked it up, drawing it from the glass.

It was a necklace, with an hourglass hung in the middle.

_“I mark the hours, every one.  
Nor have I yet outrun the sun.  
My use and value unto you,  
Are gauged by what you have to do.”_

Angelina looked up from the inscription. There, where the cabinet had stood—a gap in the wall. A crack, just larger than the trinket.

She knew what she had to do.

She didn't know why, but she knew what.

Angelina stepped back. Then again.

When Angelina was a very little girl, her mother had taught her to throw.

To feel the connection between her hand and what was inside it.

To reel back without losing balance. To train her eye on the spot she wanted it to go.

After that, it was a matter of extension, putting all of her power and magic into the release, and watching it arc, through the air, through the dark—a glowing spot of foolish hope against all odds.

Angelina Johnson was very good at throwing—the best, maybe.

The metal hit its mark, and it exploded, throwing her back against the wall.

The castle stirred—the deepest heart of it waking beneath her.

Sand swirling through the room, then whistled through the gap, into the stone.

Time unraveled before her, wind blasting her face, the fabric of reality ripping and resewing itself. Flashes of the past hours coiled and spun, changing.

#

Angelina strode into the Great Hall, her robes still smoking from the explosion. Her hands smarted, but she couldn’t let the time-turner go. Not until she was certain. She threw her broom into the corner and squared her shoulders, stumbling forward.

“Is he here?” she asked, heart lurching as she looked over those gathered. She found Percy, who was frowning in what seemed like confusion.

Then, there was movement on the other side of the hall, and the crowd parted, revealing a flash of copper.

And Angelina chased it.

She hurtled across the space, speed unchecked, throwing herself into his arms with complete confidence.

Fred caught her, just as he always had.


End file.
